Shoah

Lady Gaga calls to Alejandro over the bar speakers. I sip the thick lager native to this city and admire the scenery. (I will ask her for her number, later). The ceiling fan has outlived its usefulness, as the crisp fall air interjects its presence through the open windows.

Wide, northern dialects explode in words like 'Fahk' and 'bawls,' exclaimed with a religious fervor by the bar patrons. The smell of cigarette smoke rides the breeze and freshens the tavern air.

The young, blond woman in the white button-up sweater runs her finger along the rim of her gin and tonic glass. She tosses me a glance while she flirts with the policeman who is using his uniform to his full advantage.

Beyond the cigarette smoke, the steady flow of steam dances inside the memorial of names and glass with that unspeakable title.

The city lights cast shadows across the asphalt streets and brick sidewalks, painting pictures of exotic animals on the grass. Shadows dance everywhere but on the tall glass memorial, illuminated internally.